“Oh, I mean to do this everywhere. I plan to have you in every room of this castle. And why stop there? On the ramparts, beneath the stars. In the park, on a blanket spread amid waving grasses.” He pushed her skirts to her waist. “But we start right here, right now. I’ve been dreaming of taking you on this table for weeks.”
The lines started to blur together on the page. Her hand slipped forward, and papers spilled to the floor. There was nothing Significant anymore. Nothing except the wicked caress of his fingers, sweeping up her thigh.
“Hullo? Anyone about?”
The unfamiliar voice called up from the courtyard.
Izzy startled, sending a sheaf of papers to the ground. “Oh, heavens,” she whispered. “Who’s that?”
“Hullo!” The voice again. “Ho, there!”
“I don’t care who he is. He needs to disappear.” Ransom turned and called out the window. “For the love of God, man. I have England’s sweetheart bent over the desk and panting for me. Go away and come back tomorrow.”
Horrified, Izzy shoved him away. “Ransom.”
She hastened outside. Thankfully, the visitor wasn’t anyone she knew. Just a messenger with an express post. Izzy gave him the postage and an extra coin for his troubles, apologizing for the duke’s inappropriate sense of humor.
When she came back inside, she put off his attempts at returning to their interlude, putting a hand to his chest.
“Ransom, don’t ever joke like that. I mean it. What if Duncan or Abigail had been about? Worse, what if that had been a Moranglian?”
“So what if it had been?” he asked. “Why do you care what those people think? Why are you so afraid of their knowing that you’re not an innocent little girl anymore?”
“Because being that innocent little girl is how I’ve survived.”
He couldn’t possibly understand this. He was a wealthy, privileged duke, and he always had been. He didn’t know what it was to be hungry and shivering alone in the dark.
“You recall how little I had to my name when I came here,” she said. “If you succeed in taking this castle from me, I’ll be left with nothing again. But my father’s admirers support me, in their own . . . unique but well-meaning ways. I may not have money, but at least I have the goodwill of thousands.”
He pulled a face. “You have a weasel. And sweetmeats.”
“It’s better than nothing.” She broke the seal on the letter. “Yes, I might have to subsist on sweetmeats some days. Yes, the roof over my head might be that of my third host in as many weeks. But I will always have food. I will always have a bed. Just so long as I’m the girl they want me to be.”
“So long as you’re little Izzy Goodnight. Not Izzy Goodnight, scandalous mistress. Or Mrs. Izzy Something-Else-Entirely.”
“Exactly. So please, Ransom. Don’t ruin it. Don’t ruin me with your thoughtless joking. Not unless you mean to promise me that I’ll never spend another night of my life feeling cold, hungry, alone, or unloved.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Love isn’t something I know how to offer. I don’t have the goodwill of thousands. You’ve read my letters. I don’t have the goodwill of anyone. And not all of us spent our childhoods in starry bedchambers, tucked beneath coverlets with kisses and stories each night.”
Her heart twisted in her chest. “How did you go to bed at night?”
“Wealthy.”
The silence was distressing, so she turned her gaze to the letter as a diversion.
“I’ve never made pretensions of being a romantic hero. And now I’m scarred, blinded, scorned by the world. But it’s not as though I couldn’t provide for you. I am still a duke.”
“Wait.” She stared numbly at the paper in her hands, scanning its contents. “According to this letter, you might not be much longer.”
“What?”
“This express that just arrived from your solicitors. It says they’ve arranged a mental-competency hearing. They’re challenging your sanity and your ability to continue acting as the Duke of Rothbury.” She lowered the paper. “They’re coming here. Next week.”
Chapter Twenty